


Two Scenes

by fitztomania



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Axel is having a Time, Canon - Kingdom Hearts II, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Roxas is having a Meltdown, and Demyx is along for the ride, turns out life on Brainwash Jail Island isn't all it's cracked up to be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8433388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitztomania/pseuds/fitztomania
Summary: Sometimes when he tries to remember something, his mind does this slipping thing, like one side of his brain is desperately trying to tell the other something—only the other side doesn't really want to hear it, and the first side doesn’t really know what it is./Roxas starts to come apart during his stint in Twilight Town, and Axel starts to come apart trying to find him.





	1. Split

It's been two weeks, and Hayner just won't stop fuckin talking about it. 

Roxas has lost count of how many times he's heard the same story about The Girl from Hayner's Revival Architecture program (and how many times he's thought, privately, that maybe his own mother was right to choose all his classes for him; what the hell is Hayner going to do with _that_ degree?), and by now he could recite it from memory. Ran into each other at Nell's Coffee. Turned out they lived right down the street from each other as kids (" _can you believe it?_ "). Coffee turned into dinner turned into (illegal, underage) drinks turned into making out turned into heavy petting. He's got it all down. At least up until the actual retelling of the sex itself, which changes a little every time. Twice it's been in a car, a few times they've gotten a hotel room. In this latest round, she's begging him to marry her right here and now. 

By this point Roxas feels it's gotten pretty disrespectful, or at least it would be if the girl actually existed, and evidently he isn't the only one who thinks so, given the way Olette sighs and either opens a book or leaves the room altogether whenever he starts talking about it. Pence is the only one who still listens, even though his face gets redder every time and Roxas is pretty sure he doesn't buy it either.  

"Give it a fuckin' rest, man," Roxas finally says as Hayner's recounting the story for one of Seifer's idiot friends.  

Hayner breaks off and looks at Roxas. "Don't be a dick, _man_." 

"Pence, you pay attention, didn't she have blond hair last time?" 

Olette slugs him in the shoulder, giggling. "He's lying, you know," Roxas says a little louder, leaning sideways to talk around Pence. "Never happened. He's a big liar."  

Rai looks confused. "Lying? Why is he lying? Why would you lie?" 

"Oh don't listen to him, Rai," Hayner says with exaggerated disgust, "he's just jealous because he's a virgin and therefore not as _mature_ as the rest of us."  

Rai's forehead crinkles up and he laughs, an ugly booming sound. "Roxas is a virgin?" 

"Am not," Roxas says serenely. Hayner busts out laughing with Rai, and Olette, knowing better, covers her involuntary smile with one of her small hands and pokes Roxas in the leg. 

"Are too." Hayner kicks his feet up onto the couch, smiling smugly at Roxas. "You can't even _talk_ to the girls at school, it's pathetic. You couldn't get a girl if you tried." 

"Probably a good thing I'm not trying then." Olette, now cracking up silently next to him, lets out a loud snort. Roxas shoves her, face splitting into a grin in spite of himself.  "Knock it off!" 

"Wait, you're not a virgin?" Rai shakes his head. "I'm so confused." 

Hayner looks pissed. _Well, he would though, wouldn't he_.  "Of course he is, and he's jealous. Roxas here is a big ol' coward." 

Roxas suppresses a laugh and gives Hayner a two-finger salute. "Okay, chief. Whatever you say." 

He can see Hayner's chin jutting out and knows what it means, knows he'll have to spend the rest of the day making it up to him, if not longer. It's a small price to pay to see him knocked down a peg. 

 _Maybe I won't even tell him,_ he thinks, watching Hayner turn his machismo back on as he starts teasing Pence. _Maybe I won't even give him all the juicy details. Serves him right, making me listen to that stupid goddamned story over and over_. 

If he's being totally honest with himself, Roxas isn't sure his own story would stand up to much scrutiny anyway. It was a one-night stand, and he can get most of the picture if he thinks about it, but the details are fuzzy. He remembers a dorm room, a white one, and black clothes, and scars, and teeth, and a lot of tongue, and they must have gone for a long time, or more than once, because a lot of the memories are different. But they're not all there.  And the guy himself. . . Roxas can't remember almost anything about him, except that he was tall (wasn't he?) (and didn't he have scars all over?). He must have gone to the same university—he had a dorm there, right?—but Roxas hasn't even _seen_ him since it happened. If he truthfully described it all to Hayner, he would certainly laugh and tell Roxas he made it all up. Especially if he did it _now_.  

Still. Would've been nice to see that split-second of jealous outrage on his face. Maybe Roxas will just save it for a rainy day. 

 

***

 

Later on, after Fuu's come to collect Rai, and Hayner's gone out to the sandlot with Pence to practice for the struggle tournament (Pence's protests and pleas to wear the struggle suit still plainly audible through the curtain over the clubhouse's entrance), Olette sits next to Roxas on the squashy old couch with her legs resting on his, organizing her photo albums. Roxas absently rubs his thumbs over her ankles in small circles. 

"Didn't want to tell Hayner about your mystery man?" 

"Hmm?" Roxas looks over. Her eyes are twinkling. "Oh. No, I don’t think I do." He lets out a long exhale, and adds, after a beat, "You know, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that it didn't really happen. Or that. . . maybe I was wasted or something, when it did." 

"I'm sure it happened," Olette says, looking back down at her photos. "You having crazy drunken sex with some hot guy at university and forgetting all the details isn't _that_ far-fetched." 

"Mm, that does definitely sound like me." He takes hold of one of her ankles in both his hands and rotates it slowly, noting the small sigh that escapes her as he does. "I don't know. Hayner probably wouldn't believe me, and if he did, he'd just be mad it wasn't him." 

"Shit," she murmurs. 

Roxas pulls his hands back. "Sorry." 

"No, not that, keep doing that," she says, pointedly wiggling her feet in his lap, and taps the open album on her thighs. "This. I let Pence take a bunch of pictures to copy and send home, and he never put them back." She flips through the pages, frowning. "He took a lot. . ." 

Roxas hums, trying to remember something, _anything_ , about the guy that would make him sound more real. "It's Pence, I'm sure he'll get them back to you soon." 

"Jesus Christ, I can't take any more," Pence pants, jogging into the clubhouse and flopping unceremoniously onto the floor. His face is red and shiny with sweat. From across the sandlot Roxas can hear Hayner yelling obscenities. "Get what back to you soon?" 

"My pictures," Olette snaps. "I let you borrow them weeks ago." 

"And I returned them weeks ago, I gave them back the next day," Pence shoots back defensively.  

She picks up the book from her lap and brandishes it in his direction. "Then why are all these still missing?" 

Pence shakes his head and pushes himself up off the floor with a groan. "I didn't take any from the albums, Olette, just the new stack in the shoebox. And I promise, I put all those back. In order, even," he adds. 

Olette furrows her eyebrows and examines the album again.  

Roxas crinkles his nose, looking down at Olette's calves in his lap. It seems like he's forgetting everything lately. He used to have a much better memory, or at least he thinks so. Why can't he remember anything? 

"Roxas, did you take any of my pictures?" 

"I can't—what?" He looks up at her again. "Uh—sorry, no. Why?" 

Olette sighs loudly, drumming the page impatiently with her fingernails. "You’re not in any of these. Someone took all the pictures with you in them." 

"What?" 

She drops the book in his lap. "See for yourself." 

Roxas flips through the pages, scanning them for his own image, but Olette is right—Roxas has been cleaned right out. All the empty slots have label cards in them, and each one is marked with Roxas's name in Olette's perfect penmanship.

He suddenly feels like he needs to take a shower. 

"This is gross," he says frankly, handing the album back to her. "Who would even do that?" 

Pence lets out an ugly laugh. "Maybe you should ask Hayner." 

Roxas shoves his foot into Pence's side, tipping him over. "That shit's not funny." 

"It's kind of funny," Olette comments, turning a page. 

"It's not, it's _creepy_ ," he insists. "If it's Hayner, that means he didn't _ask_ for them, and then _that_ means—" He shudders. " _Ugh_." 

Pence sighs, twisting his sweatband in his hands. "Is it creepier that I’d probably be okay with it if it was me?" 

Olette looks up from her album to stare at him incredulously, and he at least has the decency to make a face like he's judging himself. 

"Jesus," Roxas says, embarrassed. "Have some pride, Pence."

 

***

 

Later, when the sky is darkening and he and Roxas are slowly making their way home (Pence and Olette having already split off for the Lamplight District with a wave), Hayner asks, "Why'd you say that shit, earlier?" 

"What shit?"  

"About you not being a virgin anymore. Why'd you lie?" He sounds casual enough, but Roxas can feel it ramping up into a classic Hayner Hissyfit and it puts him on edge.  

"I didn't lie," he retorts. 

"What," Hayner says, bitterness creeping into his voice, "you jealous, or something?" 

Roxas laughs, a single bark of sound in the cool night air. " _God_ , no." 

 _Now_ Hayner's mad, making that face like he's been sucking on a lemon. "You trying to make _me_ jealous? It's not like—" 

"Give it a fucking rest, would you?" Roxas snaps. "Not everything is about _you_. You're just pissed off 'cause you tried to look like a big shot in front of, what, Seifer's dumbest lackey, and it didn't work." 

"You _lied_ ," Hayner insists. Roxas can practically see the steam coming out of his nose. "Why can't you just _say_ it?" 

"Because I _didn't fucking lie!_ " he shouts, whipping around to stop Hayner in his tracks. He gets right up in his face, nose to nose. "You don't think I can get laid on my own? You don't think people want to have sex with me? You think I have to _ask your permission_?" He punctuates the last few words with flattened fingertips like a blade into Hayner's chest. 

He genuinely doesn't know _why_ he's so upset about this. It's nothing worse than the usual crap Hayner pulls, and Hayner isn't even being that big a dick about it, if Roxas is really being truthful with himself. Maybe because so many of the details are fuzzy, or lost all together. Maybe it's that nagging doubt, that _feeling_ like it didn't really happen, when he knows in his gut that it did.  

Or maybe he's just tired of Hayner's stupid fucking schoolboy crush, and all the hair-pulling and seat-kicking that comes with it.  

Hayner asks, his voice deadly quiet, "If it wasn't a lie, who was it?" 

Roxas looks up at the purpling sky over the edge of the Market District, sighing. "A guy at school." 

Hayner's nostrils flare out at the word _guy_. "When?" 

"I dunno, a while ago." 

"What's his _name_?" 

"I'm not giving you a fucking file," he says irritably. He can't remember, and it pisses him off. _A, something A. And red, and hot, and_ sharp _._  

He takes a step back, anger already fading to a dull roar after his outburst. He starts walking again, slowly, trying to make Hayner follow suit. 

After a minute he does, falling into step beside Roxas. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" Hayner doesn’t sound mad anymore either. Just petulant. Childish. Voice angling up into a whine. Roxas doesn't know which is worse. 

"Why _would_ I?" 

"I'm your best friend." 

"Yeah," Roxas cedes, "but you're a prick. And I didn't want to listen to it. And. . . " It takes Roxas a few more steps to realize Hayner's stopped again. He turns around in exasperation. "Come on, man. I'm not doing this all night, I just wanna go home—" 

The alley behind him is empty.  

"Hayner?" 

Golden light flickers off of the cobblestones. No one answers him. He doesn't even hear Hayner's footsteps, or his breathing. It would be downright eerie, if it wasn't so goddamn annoying. 

Roxas feels his mouth curl into a sneer and his hands curl into fists. "Fine, you fucking baby," he says, his voice loud in the sudden silence.  

It's about half a block before he hears footsteps a little ways behind him, and decidedly doesn't turn around. Let Hayner sulk—maybe he'll learn something from it.  

Okay, he probably won't, but it's nice to think. 

Sometimes, truthfully, he wonders (quietly, and only to himself) why he's still friends with Hayner. Why _any_ of them are, Pence included. Sometimes he gets a nagging feeling deep in his gut that their friendship is wrong, all wrong, and that they don't really know each other at all. Which is stupid, really, because they've known each other since— 

Since when? He can't remember. A long time, he knows that. Since they were kids. Right? 

Sometimes when he thinks about Hayner, his mind does this _slipping_ thing, like one side of his brain is desperately trying to tell the other something—only the other side doesn't really want to hear it, and the first side doesn’t really know what it is. 

He rounds a corner and hears the footsteps get louder, feels Hayner about a foot behind him and that, that is just about all he can take for today. "For _fuck's sake_ , dude," he erupts, rounding on him, " _take the hint_ —" 

It's not Hayner.  

It's so not Hayner that it's not even _human_. 

Roxas staggers back.  

It approaches, silkily, sliding and twisting toward him at the same time it dances on a grotesque mockery of human feet. It reaches with hands that aren't hands. Its face unzips.  

 _My liege_ , it says, but Roxas can't say _how_ it says because one mouth is gaping and the other is closed and neither of them form words. It stretches. It _reaches_.  

It wants him. It wants to take him. He can't say how he knows this either, only that it's true.  

"No," he says, stumbling blindly backward, away from it, "no, _nonono_ —" 

He feels his back hit hard stone, and he throws his hands up. He feels the thing in his space, desperate to take him _away._ His fingers curl and he swings out, and suddenly—his hand isn't empty anymore.  

The thing rears back, then forward. He swings again. He connects, and he feels a solid pressure at the end of his arm, and then _give_. 

He swings again. And again.  

The thing collapses to the ground, twitching, and he doesn't stop hitting it. Something hot splashes onto his face, his arms, his clothes. 

When he finally stops, chest heaving, blood singing, the thing isn't moving anymore. It isn't _anything_ anymore, just a wet black mass on the ground. He looks down at what he's holding.  

It's a _key_. Not a sword, or a staff, but a giant metal _key_. 

His mind slips again, tips like the deck of a sinking ship. The image of his hand, holding it, peels itself apart. He sees it, gloved, the key's handle bright and gleaming. He sees it, bare, skin and dull iron spattered thickly with black gore.  

A panicked yelp scrambles its way out of his mouth and he _hurls_ the key away from him. It skids, clattering across the cobblestones, bounces off the wall opposite, and then, impossibly, _disappears_.  

He drops to his knees, pushing his filthy hands tightly into his hair. His heart is pounding in his ears, and his breath is coming hard enough that it forces little screams out of him, ragged and thin. A few feet away, the thing is disintegrating, tendrils of steam rising upward and dissipating into the air. 

Roxas doesn't know how long he sits there, trying to shove the halves of his brain back together while the alley darkens around him. The scene keeps replaying itself, splitting itself into layers: the thing, terrifying and foreign, known and understood; the key, warm and familiar, heavy and alien.  

Somehow, after minutes or hours or years, his labored breathing evens out into occasional hiccups. He lowers his hands from his head and feels its weight settle back onto his shoulders, heavier than it's ever been in his life.  

He sits back on his heels and wills himself to look at the remains of the thing—not that much remains, just a dark stain on the street, and a small pile of something with straight edges.  

Something _clicks_ together in Roxas's head and he crawls toward the patch of dark, gathering the pile into his hands.  

Pictures. Pictures smudged with black ichor. 

Pictures of _Roxas_.  

His stomach heaves upward and he doubles over, retching.  

"Dude," Hayner says from above him.

 

***

 

"We _talked_ about this," Axel says, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I need you to find _Roxas_." 

The Dusk just stares at him. Well, not _just_ ; the things never stop moving, breakdancing in their creepy way. There's something about them that Axel finds fundamentally _wrong_ , and he'll never get used to them, not even the ones that have for some reason grown attached to him and have sprouted red spikes down their backs.  

"Do you understand? I don't want _these_." He accentuates this by brandishing the pictures, smacking the Dusk in its approximation-of-a-chest. "Find me the real thing. And for Christ's sake, don't bring him back _here._ Don't even—are you listening? Don't even touch him. Just leave him where he is and report back. Got it memorized?" 

"Dude, what are you doing?" 

Axel looks up to see Demyx frowning at him from the doorway. He's not really sure what he can say to explain this away: he's sitting on his bedroom floor, waving pictures around and arguing with a Dusk. It doesn’t look great. 

"Can I help you?" he asks stupidly.  

"Saïx needs you," Demyx says, sour, "and I'm gonna guess it's more important than. . . whatever this is." 

"Fine, fine. Tell him I'll be there in a minute." 

"Tell him yourself," Demyx retorts, then repeats, "What are you _doing_?" 

"Nothing. I'm doing nothing." Axel turns back to the Dusk and snaps, "Why the fuck are you still here? _Go._ " 

It does, melting into the dark corridor that opens up in the floor beneath it with a weirdly apologetic air.  

Demyx leans against the doorframe. "Yeah, that definitely looked like nothing." 

"I know you're being sarcastic, but I don’t really care." Axel pulls himself up and makes a shooing motion with his hands. "Now get." 

Demyx starts to leave, then stops, his eye catching on something—Axel looks down and sees he's still holding the pictures. _Shit_. "Wait—is that Roxas?" 

"No," Axel says quickly, shoving the pictures into his coat. Demyx's eyes follow them and Axel makes a mental note to burn them later. " _Move_ , would you?" 

But Demyx doesn't budge, just angles his chin up insolently. "Why do you have pictures of Roxas? Do you know where he is?" 

" _Keep_ your _voice_ down—fuck, were you always this annoying?" Axel says impatiently. "What did Larxene ever see in you? Get _out_ of my _way_." 

Demyx plants a hand on Axel's chest and pushes him back, eyes narrowed into smoky slits. " _One_ , don't talk to me about Larxene. And _two_ , everyone is looking for Roxas. He's priority number one. So if you know where he is—" 

"I'm gonna count to three." 

"—you don't _get_ to keep it to yourself." 

"Remove your hand from my body or I will _break it_." 

Demyx does, but his tough-guy face doesn't falter.  

"Tell me what you're doing," he demands, "and show me those pictures. Or I'll go to the Master, and you'll go to the Chamber." 

"Jesus," Axel says, shocked. "When did you grow a spine?" 

Demyx shrugs and pushes off the doorframe, making to walk away. 

"Okay, okay." Axel grabs the back of his coat and yanks him backward into the room, checking the hallway for anyone who might be listening before bolting the door shut behind him. " _Yes_ , they are pictures of Roxas, all right?" 

Demyx's jaw pushes out. "Show me." 

Axel rolls his eyes and pulls them out of his chest pocket. Demyx snatches them up. 

"Second question," he says, examining them closely. 

" _No_ , I don't know where he is." 

Demyx holds up the third photo in the stack: Roxas outside of the jewelry shop in Tram Common. "You're either a bad liar or an idiot. He's in Twilight Town." 

"He's not. I've been there." 

"Today?" 

"Yes, _today_. I finished my mission in ten minutes and combed the entire city looking for him. He's not there." 

Demyx holds up another picture: Roxas, with the three kids they always used to see around the station. "Did you ask them?" 

"Of course I did," Axel says, annoyed. 

"And?" 

Axel's eyes threaten to roll right out of their sockets. " _And_ they'd never even heard his name before, just said 'oh, that guy you used to get ice cream with?'" 

Demyx clicks his tongue disbelievingly and goes back to the pictures, and Axel sits down on his bed. He unzips his coat and shoulders out of it. The room is suddenly, suffocatingly hot. Roxas used to be able to fix that.  

After a moment Demyx says, "What are you doing, anyway?" 

"It's _hot_." 

"No, I mean— _everybody's_ looking for Roxas, and you didn't want me to tell the Master. Why the big secret?" 

Axel considers for a moment whether it would be worth it to lie. "I have been. . . expressly forbidden," he starts carefully, opting for the truth, "to find him." 

A deep furrow forms between Demyx's eyebrows. "What? Why?" 

"Y'know, I wasn't told," Axel says dryly. "But I assume it's due to the nature of any punishments they have planned for him. And our. . . relationship."  

Demyx flushes, then looks down at the pictures with a faint note of helplessness, like they might bite him. Or like maybe like he knows he's fucked up in a way that could get him brought in as an accomplice, and now he's waiting for someone to tell him what to do here.  

Axel's mind flicks back to Larxene for a minute, and the skeleton of a plan starts to form. He watches Demyx flip through the pictures for another moment, then asks, "Do you miss her?"  

Demyx's face darkens. He lets out a hard breath through flared nostrils like a bull. "You don't get to ask me that. Not you." 

"Why?" 

"You know why." 

"Oh, I do," Axel says mildly, "I'm just wondering if _you_ do." 

Demyx drops the stack of pictures onto Axel's bedspread, rounding on him hotly. "I'm not _stupid_ , Axel." 

"Are you sure? Because your acting is _spot-on_." 

"You killed her," Demyx bursts out suddenly, dropping all pretense. "I know you did. Why can't you just _say_ it?" 

Now they're getting somewhere. "I can say it, if you like, it just wouldn't be true." 

"Come the fuck off it," Demyx says disgustedly. "You have her _knives_ , Axel! I've _seen_ them." 

Axel shrugs. "So I have her knives. Doesn't mean I killed her." 

Demyx clenches his fists and snarls, "You're a liar." 

"I'll give you that," Axel says, "but I promise I didn't kill her." 

"But you _did!_ " Demyx shouts—Axel glances toward the door in concern. "And even if you didn't—you were the only one left. She's dead because of _you_." 

"Demyx, buddy," Axel says patiently, "that might be a fair point, if she were _actually_ _dead_." 

The words take a moment to hit him, but when they do, they hit hard—Demyx actually _staggers_ backward. His mouth gapes open like a fish's, and only a small strangled noise comes out.  

It might be funnier, if it weren't honestly a little sad.  

He wonders how Demyx could stand to live with him this long, thinking he killed her. If he ever even _suspected_ Demyx had hurt Roxas, he'd flay him in his sleep. Not Demyx—he even saves Axel the last muffin at breakfast. 

"She's—she's not—" 

"Dead?" Axel supplies. "No. At least, she wasn't when I left her." 

"You're lying," Demyx says, his voice wavering. 

Axel shrugs his hands out in an _If you say so_ sort of way. "I would have nothing to gain from that." 

Demyx sways dangerously, and Axel springs to his feet, reaching out to steady him. He guides him down onto the mattress. "Larxene is—she's—oh, hell." 

"Give it a minute."  

"She's not dead," he breathes. 

Axel hums thoughtfully. "You might even say she's. . . _alive_." 

"Fuck," Demyx groans. He slumps forward, propping his head in his hands. He makes noises like he's had all the wind knocked out of him. Axel sits motionless next to him, calculating. 

After a few beats he lays his hand on Demyx's back. 

"Listen, buddy," he murmurs, "what do you say we make a deal?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wanted to explore how Roxas handles the whole Brainwash Jail nothing-you-know-is-real thing—which, if it were me, would not be well. (I also honestly wanted to write something with a little less SCOPE, and confine myself a bit.) I really like writing "messy" and I feel like Roxas and Axel as characters are sort of. . . as messy as it gets. I foresee a lot of angst and existential dread in the days to come!! Stay tuned!!
> 
> As always, any constructive criticism and feedback appreciated!


	2. Get It Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get it together," he told himself firmly in the bathroom mirror. "You're going to be fine. Today will be fine."

The deal is simple: Demyx, with his considerable skills in both tracking and time-wasting, helps Axel find Roxas, and buys him a little bit of time to figure out where to go from there. In exchange, afterward, Axel will tell him where Larxene is.  

Demyx had hesitated at first, but then Axel went to get the knives from his bureau and pressed them into his hands, and his pointed jaw squared. It didn't seem so important right then to admit he had no idea where Larxene was; they had bigger problems.  

 _Besides_ _,_ as he told himself, he had every intention of holding up his end. _I'll just have to find her first._  

Today, they both have missions. Demyx takes his customary sweet time getting ready, tuning his sitar nearby while Saïx gives Axel his instructions.  

"Agrabah?" Axel exclaims. "Are you mad at me or something?" 

Saïx frowns. "Is there a problem?" 

"No, no problem. I love finding sand in orifices I didn't even know I had."  

As he's making to step into the dark corridor, Saïx grabs his elbow. "Axel," he says in a low voice, "you're not thinking of going after him, are you?" 

Axel meets his gaze for a moment, considers him. His brow is furrowed, the X scar on his forehead puckering in a way entirely different from his usual irritation.  

Saïx almost looks. . . discomposed. 

In his peripheral vision Demyx pauses, head turning just a fraction.  

"Because, you know—" his fingers tighten on Axel's coat a little "—you're forbidden. And you're on thin ice lately. I'd hate to see—" 

"Relax," Axel interrupts, pulling his arm away. "I'm not itching to go back in anytime soon." 

Relief flickers over Saïx's face for an instant, then disappears. Demyx plucks out a sour note on his sitar and swears. 

"Be careful," Saïx calls sardonically as the dark corridor closes behind Axel. "The Dusks say there's a sandstorm brewing." 

"Of course!" Axel shouts back, just before the darkness swallows him up and he's left alone. He takes the glass panel out of his pocket and activates it. 

There's always a fucking sandstorm brewing in Agrabah.

 

***

 

When Hayner caught up to him, Roxas had been so out of his mind with panic that he couldn't even be mad at him for ditching—but the more he babbled, the clearer it became that Hayner hadn't seen anything, and didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He couldn't see the gallon of black blood Roxas was splattered with, either, and when Roxas brandished the gory pictures in a last-ditch effort to make Hayner understand, all he said was, "Oh good, you found Olette's pictures. Is that what you're freaking out about? Relax, dude, she's not gonna kill you." 

His mom couldn't see the blood, either, and seemed to think he was just coming down with something. She sent him up for a hot shower while she made him some soup. 

Roxas stood under the spray for nearly an hour, letting the scalding water run cold over him. Every once in a while another clump of the black stuff would fall out of his hair, and he would start retching again.  

When he got out, he wrapped his clothes in the towel he used to dry off, and threw the lot into the incinerator outside. He felt a little bit better, watching them go up in flames. The terror subsided.  

He couldn’t eat much, and didn't get much sleep, either. The weird dreams were back, punchy and visceral—long tunnels with slumbering monsters at the end, weeds with human faces floating in deep water. He kept lurching awake, gulping down air like he hadn't breathed in hours, and after the first incident, he'd found an old washing bucket to keep next to his bed. 

He finally gave up and shucked his sweaty covers to the floor sometime around dawn. 

"Get it together," he told himself firmly in the bathroom mirror. "You're going to be fine. Today will be fine." 

By the time he gets to the usual spot, he's mostly managed to convince himself that what happened yesterday was some sort of bizarre seizure. Hayner graciously doesn't mention his meltdown, and for once, Roxas is thankful for his particular brand of selfish single-mindedness. 

"Classes start _next week_ , you guys," Hayner says, in a reproachful tone that suggests it's his friends' collective fault. "When are we going to the beach?" 

"We could go today," Pence suggests.  

"The beach costs munny," Roxas points out. "Do _you_ have munny, Pence?" 

"Munny?" Hayner says incredulously. "It's the _beach_. It's _free_." 

Olette starts ticking off on her fingers. "Snacks, drinks, sunscreen, four train tickets, and a watermelon for each of us when we get there." 

Hayner's face falls. "Oh. Right. So—" 

"So no beach," Roxas finishes.  

" _So_ ," Hayner continues, giving Roxas the stink eye, "we get together some munny _today_ , Debbie Downer, and we go tomorrow. Come on, let's go check the job board." 

The August heat means the board is full of nasty outdoor jobs no one wants to do—which is how Roxas ends up twenty feet off the ground on a rickety ladder, spraying for bees with sweat dripping down his face.  

"Whew," the guy down on the ground says, mopping his forehead. "This heat is really something, isn't it?" 

Roxas bites down on a retort ( _you should try it up here_ ) and calls back over his shoulder, "It sure is." 

The bees don't go down without a fight, and after that, it's gutting flowerbeds and laying garden bricks for two old ladies in the Market District, then mowing a lawn for another old lady down the street (and two more after that, who saw him do the first one). When he catches up with Hayner, hauling pallets up the hill in Station Heights to the incinerator, he's filthy, sore, covered with welts—and still raring to go. 

"Come on," he says, "gimme another one." 

Hayner grunts, pulling the gate down. "Are you serious? I'm beat." 

"Yeah, but I'm not. Come on, there's gotta be more." 

"What, you wanna pay for all of us?" 

Roxas bounces on the balls of his feet. "Hell no, I'm just on a roll." 

Hayner laughs and bends down to snap some planks off of the nearest pallet. "Give it a rest, man," he says. "We'll get back to it tomorrow." 

But Roxas doesn't want to give it a rest. He hasn't thought about the _thing_ from last night, or the pictures (still at home on his dresser), or that _key_ , since he got started. All he's been about to think about are his aching muscles and how goddamn _hot_ it is. He hasn't even thought about Mystery Guy. 

Well, that's only technically true. It's not really thinking about someone if you can't remember anything about them, right? 

He considers reaching into Hayner's back pocket while he bends and grabbing the sheaf of want ads, but before he can, Hayner straightens. 

"Listen," he says, making a face that could only be described as _pained_ , "I'm, uh, I'm sorry." 

Distracted, Roxas looks up. "Uh—what?" 

"About yesterday."  

If he had turned around and punched Roxas in the face, he honestly would have been less surprised. "Oh. Well—it's fine." 

"No, it’s not." Hayner scratches the back of his head. "It wasn’t really. . . fair of me. Just because I—"  

He goes red and drops his eyes to Roxas's shoes. 

"I mean. Of course it's fine. If you, uh. . . with other people. It's none of my business." 

It doesn't escape Roxas that Hayner says _other_ _people_ , like he was ever an option, but he's not about to argue semantics. Not when Hayner is apparently apologizing to somebody for the first time in his life. Roxas almost wants to start checking him for head injuries. Or bite marks, from a radioactive conscience. 

"Well," Roxas starts slowly, "I guess it wasn't really fair of me either. You're my best friend, I shouldn't have kept it a secret." 

Hayner gives him a thin smile, then bends to pick up another pallet. "So, you're gonna have a boyfriend when we get back to school, huh? I'll have to share custody." 

"No, I don't think so. It was—a one-time thing." Roxas frowns. "Maybe." 

"Maybe?" 

"It might've been more than once," Roxas explains. 

Hayner gives him a weird, long look over his shoulder. "You can tell me, I promise I won't be a dick about it." 

"No, I know, just—I think I might've been drunk. I don't remember much about it." 

"Really?" 

"Really. I don't—" He shakes his head, not sure why he's telling Hayner this part. "I don't even remember his name." 

Hayner pauses, frowning, his arms full of splintered planks. "Huh." 

"Yeah, I know," Roxas says. He can't help how fake it sounds. "I think that's why. . . I didn't tell you." 

Hayner's eyebrows knit together, but he doesn't look mad. He actually looks thoughtful, and a little relieved.  He yanks the incinerator gate closed and says, "As long as you didn't _not_ tell me because you think I'm an asshole." 

"I don't think you're an asshole," Roxas says. "I _know_ you are." 

Hayner's face splits into a grin. "Takes one to know one. All right, I'll be right back, I just gotta let him know I finished." 

"Okay, I'll wait."  

He smiles as he watches Hayner go, feeling all the tension bleed out of him and slowly replace itself with warmth.  

They're about to walk back to the usual spot to meet their friends, like last night (the argument, Roxas refuses to think about anything else that may or may not have happened last night) never happened. Maybe get some ice cream. Maybe practice for the struggle tournament. Maybe just lounge around and plan for the beach tomorrow.  

Hayner doesn't even think he's lying. Maybe Roxas can even talk to him about Mystery Guy—maybe they can put the story together, together. 

For the first time all day, he actually feels grounded.

 

***

 

Axel isn't sure if it's because of the sandstorm or if there's just a memo he didn't get, but there are a lot of bandits in the Cave of Wonders today. Usually, when Axel gets sent here to swipe something or other for the castle's power system, there's only one or two. Today there have been _six_ already, and if they didn't leave gory, perfectly tangible bodies behind, Axel would think the Cave was just fucking with him on purpose.  

By the time Demyx finally pings him, he's covered in just a truly _marvelous_ layer of blood and sand, and there are little red veins crowding the edges of his vision. He yanks off one filthy glove, scrambling to get the  glass panel out of his coat. "About time." 

Demyx's face is coming through fuzzy, probably due to Axel being about as deep as one can get in a tiger-shaped hole in the desert. "Sorry," he says, his voice strangely echo-y and faint, "I wanted to be thorough." 

"Where are you?" 

"Castle Oblivion." 

No wonder he looks so uneasy. "Did you find anything?" 

"Just Heartless," he says, "and, uh, blood. Old." 

"No Roxas?" 

"No Roxas."

"How sure are you?" 

"Pretty damn," Demyx says, scratching his head. "Dusks didn't turn anything up." 

Unlike the rest of them, Demyx's Dusks actually seem to listen to him. Axel curses, wiping his other  glove fruitlessly on his pants. "How close are you to being done with your mission?" 

"This was my mission. I just figured I'd check in with you before I went back to Saïx." 

"Gotcha. Thanks." 

"Are you just about done there?" 

Axel eyes the diamond at the other end of the chamber, situated improbably in the air between two large, hooked golden staffs. "Yeah, just about." 

"No Roxas there either?" 

"No," he sighs, "but I didn't really think he would be. Listen, the computer there—can you get into it?" 

"Already done," Demyx says, and swivels the panel so Axel can see where he is: Castle Oblivion's control room. "We should both be getting mission updates from here on out. I covered my tracks." 

 _Impressive,_ Axel reflects again, _what Demyx can do when given proper motivation_. "That's something, at least." 

"Doesn't look like anyone else has had any luck yet, though." Demyx shrugs. "Gives us a little bit of advantage, right?" 

Axel doesn't see how, but he shrugs back. "If you say so." 

Demyx glances back over his shoulder. "Xaldin's coming. I gotta go." 

The screen goes blank.  

No Roxas. Not even just no Roxas, but no _clues_. No lead. No luck. Axel briefly considers hurling the panel over the edge of the crevasse in frustration, into the black nothingness below. 

After a moment he tucks it back into his chest pocket instead, sighing deeply, and edges out onto the long stone walkway. It's thin enough that he has to keep one foot in front of the other and hold both of his arms out for balance, like a tightrope walker. The tails of his coat flap around him, and he wishes he'd thought to take it off first.  

He gets a prickly feeling on the back of his neck and remembers how Roxas always felt like the Cave itself was watching him, trying to judge whether or not he was worthy.  

 _Scorpions,_ he thinks, wobbling a little, resisting the urge to slap the back of his neck. _Or more sand._ Trickling down into his hood to make him heavier and throw him off balance. 

He reaches the other side of the bridge and looks up at the altar. The diamond itself is impossibly large, bigger than his head. No way the Cave just lets him _grab_ it.  

He stretches out his hand, and a shell of swirling blue void starts to form around it. Axel feels it tug free of its magic strings; it starts to float down toward him. The stone beneath him starts to shake, but uncertainly, like it's not sure what to do with this particular method of thievery.  

"All right, beautiful," he says, catching the ball of darkness easily in his hands, "you're coming with me."

 

***

 

"I'm starting to think you only wanted to practice so you could kick my ass," Hayner pants, clutching his chest.  

Roxas laughs weakly, finally dropping his struggle bat. Hayner's is forgotten, knocked clear with that last haymaker. They're both lying on their backs in the middle of the sandlot.  

"You been practicing without me?" 

The last match is. . . kind of a blur, honestly. There was a moment toward the beginning where Hayner advanced on him too quickly, jerking around to throw him off, and Roxas could only see that _thing_ , and the struggle bat had gotten heavier in his hand and he'd forgotten they were only playing a game. He'd seen black splatters and heard the dull clank of metal until Hayner was on his knees, unarmed and shouting, "Jesus, I give, _I give_!" 

Now, lying in the sinking sun with his muscles all loose and warm, he feels a little silly. "Yeah, maybe a bit." 

"I kinda feel like I'm dying," Hayner groans. He rolls his neck to look at Roxas, eyes wide. "Man, if you play this good against _Setzer_? You're gonna win." 

"That's if I even _get_ to Setzer, though," Roxas says pragmatically, but Hayner is already shaking his head. 

"You _will_ , though. And you'll win. And I can't even be mad about it." Hayner props himself up on his elbows. "Just make sure you give Seifer an extra-large beating for me, okay?" 

"Give Seifer a what, now?" 

Roxas doesn't even need to turn his head to guess the source of that voice, but he does anyway, all the tendons in his neck screaming. Seifer is stalking out onto the sandlot, alone for once, with his struggle bat balanced on his shoulder in a way that Roxas guesses makes him think he looks cool.  

"A big ol' kiss," Roxas says. Hayner punctuates it with a wet smooching sound. 

Seifer makes a face. "That's real mature." 

"Not yet," Roxas says conversationally, "but it could get there, if you want." 

Hayner laughs, and Seifer's cheeks glow the faintest shade of pink. "You're funny, Roxas." 

"I'd like to think so." 

"Funny won't save you at the tournament." 

"You say that like the winner gets to execute the loser. It's just _struggle_ , man." 

He sees the assertion hit Seifer a little harder than he expects it to, and almost instantly regrets saying it. Seifer got into university on a competitive struggle scholarship. Struggle is all Seifer _is_.  

"What're you doing out here all by your lonesome, anyway?" Hayner asks good-naturedly, craning his neck like he expects to see Rai and Fuu crouching behind him.  

"I came to practice, same as you." Seifer frowns. "I was supposed to be meeting Vivi. . . " 

"Maybe he's running late." 

" _I_ was running late. He should be here by now." Seifer, in turn, eyes Hayner like he thinks he's hiding Vivi in one of his overly large pockets.  

"Well, we haven't seen him," Hayner  dismisses, settling back down on the packed dirt with his arms behind his head.  

Roxas shoots him a sideways Look and offers, "Hey, I'll spar with you if you want." 

Seifer looks strangely touched. It doesn't do much to assuage Roxas's guilt, but it's something. "Uh, thanks," he says, scratching his head, "but it's not really. . . about sparring, I guess. He's been acting really weird lately." 

"How can you tell the difference?" Hayner asks. "He acts really weird all the time." 

"Dude," Roxas snaps. 

"What? It's true." 

"This is different," Seifer says. "It's like he's not even the same person. . . " 

Something about the words catches in Roxas's ear. He hears them said again, in a richer, deeper voice, pitched quiet, not for Roxas to hear, but he does anyway. _It's like (he's) (you're) (he's) not even the same person._  

Almost on cue, he catches a black flicker of movement somewhere behind Seifer, back by the Market Square entrance.  It's only there for a second, whipping around a corner so fast Roxas can't even really be sure he saw it, and it _could_ be anything—tournament amateurs peeking in on them, maybe, hoping to pick up tips or else pissed the Sandlot's taken. Or a cat.  

It could be anything, but he knows it's a coat. A long, black coat. He can't explain how, but he _knows,_ just like he knows the sky is blue and the ground beneath his back is— 

Tilting.

He gives himself a good mental _snap_ , like he's shaking out a rug, and squints up at Seifer's worried face. "Look, the tournament's in two days. There's not really time. Do you want me to practice with you, or help you look for Vivi?" 

He holds up a hand. Seifer makes a face like he's just been offered a steaming casserole dish full of bugs, then takes it and hauls Roxas to his feet.  

"Practice," he says, a tad dejectedly, "I guess." 

Roxas claps him on the shoulder and picks up his bat, swaying a little bit. His muscles are still ragged, ankles shaky. It's _good_ , though. It makes him feel _present_. He swings his arm out experimentally, feeling the burn and stretch. The light wooden bat feels nothing like a key. 

Hayner climbs to his feet. "You good, man? That last match was—" 

"I'm good," Roxas interrupts, and flashes him a quick grin. _I'll just sleep like a rock tonight, that's all._  

"I'll take east," Seifer says, taking a few steps backward. "Defending." 

"Well, aren't you generous." Roxas plants himself on the west side of the center line, easing down into a starting squat. He digs his toes into the hard-packed dirt beneath him, and the earth stays flat.  

"Counting it down," Hayner calls from the sidelines.  

"I'm going to kick your ass," Seifer hisses through his teeth. 

"That right?" 

"And then I'm going to kick your ass Thursday." 

"Aw, Thursday's no good for me, I'm in the tournament that day. Rain check?" 

Seifer growls at him. 

"Maybe you can use that day to work on your trash talk." 

"Two— _one_ ," Hayner shouts. " _Struggle!_ " 

As Roxas launches himself forward, his mind goes blissfully, blessedly blank.

 

***

 

He's standing on a platform, in the middle of an endless black cavern. No—he's _running_. And the thing behind him is gaining. 

He hears the glass of the platform splinter beneath feet that were arms not half a second ago, and whirls with his arm thrust out. The key slams back into his hand, warm and eager.  

The thing's next step pounds into the platform, sending up shards of glass, pushing up a wave of concrete that sends Roxas toppling. He regains his footing and lunges toward it. The key connects; the thing screeches, enormous and metallic like two submarines scraping together underwater, more feeling than sound. It gropes for him; he dodges and slides beneath it.  

He's not even controlling the key anymore. It's propelling him forward, pulling him to leap from one massive leg to the other and up onto the thing's back, finding him fissures to hook one hand into while the other raises and drives the key into the monster's version of a back. The thing howls. Its arms raise.  

It— _shifts_ , suddenly. The clicks and clanks resonate in his bones.  

It doesn't have a face, but it stares down at him, and its maw gapes. An impossible void in an impossible creature. It plucks him, screaming, from its back and swallows him whole.  

It's like being tipped over the edge of a cliff. Roxas falls down, down, into red nothing. He falls for centuries, for eons until something wraps around his ankle and he snaps up hard, seeing stars.  

Purple vines shoot up out of the darkness to tangle his legs. He lashes out with the key, scattering leaves shaped like purple teardrops. The vines feel like skin. 

 _Roxas_. . .  

He opens his mouth to scream for help like anyone will hear him, and a vine coils around his head, lodging itself between his teeth. 

The vines tip him forward, down. He hovers over an endless wasteland of skin, tracked with puckered scars. The leaves have formed giant teardrops below him, and above the teardrops are two colossal vivid green eyes.  

Staring right at him. 

Nowhere to hide. 

**_Roxas_. **

He startles himself awake with a real scream that rips its way out of his throat. 

He's back in his room, somehow. Drenched in cold sweat, clothes clinging to him like he's jumped into a freezing river, breathing like he's been sparring again, but home. Safe.  

He scrambles up against his headboard and wraps his arms around his knees, hugging them close. His water clock whirs softly, blinking 4:37 AM. 

Just a nightmare. 

"Oh, _God,_ " he sobs, covering his face with his hands. "Get it _together_ , Roxas." 

His door thumps suddenly and he yelps, looking desperately around for something he can use as a weapon, but it's just his mom's soft voice on the other side. "Honey? You all right?" 

"Yeah," he says hoarsely. He clears his throat. "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine." 

"I heard you shouting. Did you have a nightmare?" 

He drags his fingers down his face, brimming with hot shame—how close had he just come to hurting his own _mother_ , over a stupid nightmare? "Yeah, just—a really bad one." 

"Can I get you anything?" 

"No, Mom. I'll be okay." 

"You sure?" 

"Yeah." 

"Okay. . . Good night, honey." 

"Good night, Mom." 

He doesn't hear her leave, but he doesn't hear her behind the door anymore. He lowers his hands from his face, letting out a long, shaky exhale, and gets up to strip off his clothes. 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror as he pulls on a new shirt. His eyes are bloodshot, somehow puffy and sunken at the same time. His hair is plastered down to his forehead. He looks mental. 

"Tomorrow," he says, voice cracking. "Tomorrow will be better." 

His reflection doesn't look convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing a dream sequence! Thanks again to [thugboyfriendnagisa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thugboyfriendnagisa/pseuds/thugboyfriendnagisa) for notes. 
> 
> Stay tuned for even more angst and brain pain!


End file.
